Damn Sniper
by Doktor Al Meringue
Summary: Yaoi smut, RED Sniper/BLU Spy. Sniper and Spy never were on the best of terms. Very ramble-y and no solid reason for Sniper's actions, but I gave it my best. First fanfic ever. Woo.


"Mongrel!"

_Damn._

The bullet sliced cleanly through the protective outer shell of the cranium and just as fluidly through the cerebrum. It jumbled around a bit, having significantly slowed down, bouncing off the walls, making sure to turn the target's brain into a fine mush before finally settling and embedding itself in the hindbrain. All within a matter of a second.

The sharply dressed man simply stood there at the end of the bridge. His body wavered slightly before collapsing to the ground in a heap; somehow, a cry had escaped his throat, the customary 'dying breath' that Snipers prided themselves on, and _by god if he hadn't caught that damned Bushman waving at his kill_.

Everything ached as the Spy came to realize a blurred world before him. Whitness tinged in all the right places with blue. A sickly anti-septic and bleach mix to bombard the senses. An unused coat-rack most likely there to give the bay a 'homely' feel. It took a while for him to comprehend that he was on his back. Slowly, in an experimental, infantile way, he reached across his body and crawled to the bench, soon hoisting himself upon it. He'd been sent back to the Respawn room for the fourth time in the last twenty minutes, each subsequent kill taking Sniper less time than the last, the Announcer actually having the audacity to proclaim just how _horrible_ Spy was doing the third time around. Anymore, she'd probably be laughing her omniscient all-mighty ass off at her desk in the sky.

An unsteady hand reached for the disguise kit. The Frenchman withdrew a desperately needed cigarette as another body appeared in the Respawn room. In materialized the Demoman, whose eyes darted frantically around before he gave a cry of pain followed by a grumble at the absense of his beloved Scrumpy. "The RED's Demoman is almost as good as me!" The Demoman said, preaching to the Spy, searching around frantically for where he'd hidden his next bottle. Spy had often discovered little compartments around the base in his weekly routines of looking for nooks and crannies to hide in, full of any kind of liquor imaginable, though all appeared to be from the general area around Scotland. "Oy'ah swear, if ah had to say somethin' nice about th' bastard, it'd be that he had good taste in liquor. Took what was left of me Scrumpeh as he blew me to bits, he did."

"Perhaps you would not 'ave been blown to bits if you 'adn't been drinking so much," the Spy retorted, lighting the cigarette placed so precariously between his lips that it ended up in the same spot each time. "Alcohol _does_ make the body react slower and one's judgment is clouded, to say the least. Though, you've gotten this far and your liver is still intact, why quit now?" This appeared to agitate the Demoman; but, at the swift about-face and something he about the Scout, he left, not acknowledging the Spy's comment.

The Spy scowled. "Filthy drunk." Lips gently parted and out curled a puff of smoke. A crackling noise came from the speakers. Overplayed music filled the room. Spy already knew what the broad was going to say before she said it. _You've failed!_ The doors soon slid open with a hiss. The entirety of his team - what was left of it, anyway; the Heavy alone could have easily consitituted three people at the mere sight of him - came rushing in, necks crained under the safety of meshed-together fingers, cries of bloody murder coming from various places in the base while the team had the honor of being picked off one by one like a flock of sheep.

Certain liberties were always awarded to the winning team. What few precious moments there were before the day came to a close were spent excavating every part of the losing base in attempts make sure their genocide was complete. It was only a few moments of safety before a RED Pyro wandered by and announced (somehow, in that muffled language of his) that all of the BLU's had taken shelter in their Respawn bay. Accompanied by a soundtrack courtesy of the Pyro's amazing muffled contralto and phenominal axe skills, the Sniper and Spy systematically murdered the remnants of the team: Scout first, because 'that little mongrel was a bloody good hit with a baseball'. Engineer second, for 'that bumbling Texan's Sentries were a huge pain in the ass'. Demoman third, as the sloppy usage of his sticky bombs the Spy greatly disapproved of, and the Heavy got no such reasoning behind his demise. The kukiri split his skull open without a single word on either of the REDs' part.

The Sniper turned with a grin to the Spy, though the elation was quickly replaced by a mix of confusion and anger. "Why ain't ya' cowerin', ya' mongrel?"

The Spy lifted his head half-heartedly at the words. A brief flash of the middle finger; then, a long drag on his cigarette.

"I find no reason to cower before a man who thinks 'is own _piss_ is a weapon."

The bushman growled and down came the blade. Black.

-l-

The Spy opened his eyes to the same lack of light that sprang when eyes snapped shut, causing him to wonder if he'd actually opened his eyes in the first place. He hissed as the first shot of pain stabbed his brain. Waves of nausea soon followed, whatever the Sniper had done to him it hadn't left at the Respawn like it should have-

He caught his breath. The Respawn. He wasn't at his normal Respawn. Either he hadn't quite made it yet - an experience that was rumored to be unplesant, though rare - and was about to come face to face with the overly white lights of the Medibay; he had died and hell wasn't anything he'd hoped for; or the Sniper had been _kind_ enough not to kill him. But then, where was he, if the lattermost speculation had any sort of truth to it? The Spy could tell he was restrained by something. Ropes, most likely: none of the cretins on either team had the sophistication to use anything but. They dug into flesh, body moving rigidly from side to side, producing only pinpricks of pain. So they were well-tied ropes. But still ropes. And he was missing his favorite suit jacket.

Damn ropes, restricting his movement as they did so well. His fingers curled toward his waist. If only he could grab his knife, he would be out of this predicament in a flash-

"Well, I wouldn't be tryin' that, mate. I already got ya' knife." The tone in which the words were delivered told the Spy that the Sniper was smiling. _Smiling_. A surge of hatred so foreign to the Frenchman's veins briefly consumed him. "And I got ya' little kit, and that damned bloody watch a' ya's. I made sure to prepare myself!" A light flicked on. It took a few agonizing moments to flicker to full power. The Sniper had set the Spy up in the lower most part of the RED base. The desk that still held the RED intel a mere few feet away, Sniper had situated the man so that he was in the very center of the room.

However, the intel held the Frenchman's attention for but a fleeting moment.

A smile so menacing that, in all the years he'd been in action, it was the only one that had caused the Spy to literally shiver. Yet it was impossible to look away. A brown, jagged blade hung only an inch or so away from the Spy's nose, Sniper gripping it so tightly his knuckles were turning white and his arm trembling. He took a quick step forward and knelt down. The weapon moved as well, nose to neck.

"I hate you," the Sniper murmured, applying pressure to Spy's jugular. Spy said nothing, showed nothing, dare not even blink or breathe. "_I hate you!_" The jagged edge cleaved into the muscle next to Spy's shoulder, sawing back and forth until he hit bone and received a scream in response. "_That's_ what I wanted to hear!" He yanked at the weapon without regard and threw it angrily against the wall. It shattered in a shower of wooden splinters.

The man leaned in close. Spy grimaced at the disgusting combination of what he could only assume was eucalyptus-scented aftershave and sweat. "Do you know _why _I hate you? It ain't because I don't like Spies. No, me and the Spy up there, we're best buds. Like this," he crossed his forefinger and middle finger, "as if we'd known each other our entiah lives!" He suddenly paused, frowning, looking at his hand. Then, he rocked back, and connected with a right hook that was stronger than Spy had expected. "But there's something about _you_, mate, that just rubs me the wrong way. So _arrogant. So cocky! I can't stand it! You ain't no bettah than me, or anyone else!_" The Sniper grabbed the fresh wound on Spy's shoulder. He squeezed, hard. A yelp. "Ya' like that? Eh, ya' little whelp? _Answer _me!"

The Spy spit in his eye. "_Salaud._" Sniper chuckled and wiped it away then fetched a kit to sloppily stitch up his wound. Couldn't have Spy bleeding out on him, could he?

"Blimey, you've got no idea how much I'm enjoying this." Sniper gestured to his slacks. A bulge caught Spy's eye, one that was quickly growing in size. "I'm enjoyin' it so much thatcha' givin' me a hard-on. That don't happen often, it don't. Oh well, have to work 'round it. Or, bettah yet-"

The Bushman straddled his prey, licking his lips as he hastily unzipped his trousers and fed his member through the opening of the crosshair boxers. He grabbed the Spy's head and pulled him down, just so that his lips barely touched the already-dripping prick. "Blow me. Need t' get me rocks off anyway, haven't in a while. Ya' don't mind, do ya'? 'Course not." The Spy's lips curled menacingly; Sniper caught this and suddenly jerked Spy's head away to the side and growled. "_Bite it, and I snap ya' neck. Savvy?_" He tightened his grip until the BLU member snarled. "Glad we came t' an understandin'. Now, get t'_ suckin'_, mate."

Gingerly the organ slid past his teeth, quickly stopping as it hit the back of his tongue, Spy instinctively jerking away. So this was why none of the women he'd been with liked performing oral sex: it was horrible and demeaning, precisely the reason why Sniper was making him do it. A snort came from above. "Is that the best ya' got, wanker? Take it like a man!" Sniper forced his way in further. Eventually, after a little relaxing and 'coaching' from Sniper in the form of insults and degrading comments, he became used to the cock in his mouth- or, at least, in no danger of gagging on it. As much as he tried, he couldn't get the entirety of it in. The taller man seemed to be enjoying it regardless: eyes closed, breathing shallow and quick, murmurs of sweet nothings and just how _good_ Spy was.

Sniper's fingernails dug into Spy's balaclava as the murmurs evolved into grunts. He began thrusting slowly into Spy's mouth, taking control. "Fuck," he mewled lowly through clenched teeth. "Ya' almost got me there, Spook."

_My pleasure,_ thought the Frenchman sarcastically.

A few more thrusts; then, one final, loud grunt from the Australian that signaled his release. He removed his dick from Spy's mouth, choosing instead to coat the man's face in the sticky substance rather than let him swallow it, despite most of it having already pooled there.

A sigh escaped Sniper's lips, and his body relaxed. He put everything back in its proper place and making sure he looked presentable before turning back to his captive, whose expression was a mix of many emotions (though disgust seemed to be the one he could read well). "Well, that was fun." He stroked the side of Spy's face, smiling sweetly. "I think we're done 'ere. Thank ya', an' all that. Still hate you." The words didn't come out as threatening as he'd intended, some what slurred, prolactin already applying that lovely salve to his muscles.

Sniper gathered his things and turned. "And what do you intend to do with me?" The Aussie stopped.

"Right. Almos' fehgot about ya'." An arrow to the head quickly shut the man up. Immediately Spy's body disappeared, leaving the ropes slack, erasing all traces of blood upon the floor.

_Headshot. _

Spy awoke with a jolt, that accursed word ringing in his mind. A cry of discomfort as he shielded his eyes from the glowing whiteness of the room tinged ever so nicely with blue, standing up on unsteady legs and assessing the surroundings. Respawn. It was dark, aside from the room; he checked his watch, nearly midnight. Everyone would be asleep by now.

A hand went to his shoulder. Though the muscle ached, there was no sign of ever having been wounded marring his flesh. No bruises, hook nose and cheeks still in good shape he came to find, leather-coated fingertips exploring his face. And no sticky goop. It was almost as if everything with Sniper had been a dream.

But, it wasn't, unfortunately enough. Yet neither of them would mention it to one another again, and everything would be back to normal by tomorrow's dawn.

Perhaps Spy would return the favor, he mused, shutting the lights off to the Respawn as he took his leave. Yes, a _special _backstab seemed to be in the near future for that Aussie bastard.


End file.
